We went for what should have been the penultimate scan today. When we sat at the desk the gynaecologist asked if my wife was giving natural birth or if she was having a caesarean. That didn't exactly install me with confidence, seeing as the previous week she had told us that we had to book a caesarean at the hospital that very day. She may have a number of patients, but she also had our file on her desk and our details on the computer in front of her. She was also wearing the most peculiar outfit too-fairy like leggings supporting what I would politely describe as an apple figure. Except that the apple looks at you front on. I've refrained myself from asking when HER due date is. That aside, high blood pressure, calcifying placenta and not much amniotic fluid to swim around in, means that our child arrives a bit sooner than expected.
Everyone seems to think that it should be sooner than this coming Tuesday, and I hope the gynaecologist's decision had nothing to do with the imminent long weekend. I do hope she spends it shopping for a new outfit.
So how do I feel about this new surprise? It feels like I'm meant to write a school final exam, which is two weeks away and somebody suddenly says it's been changed for tomorrow. I feel totally unprepared, because I am. I was going to sort out the baby room next week and now that week is gone. I think my reality has returned from it's long vacation. So that chicken that I spoke of in my previous post, now has a thousand heads, all rolling around in different directions.
So Tuesday is B-day. I'm excited of course, but I'm concerned about my reaction to blood and cutting flesh.
It's fine when it's my own blood. I only notice that I'm injured when things get sticky. So much so, that I'm sure that one day I'll try and comb my hair, only to see that my arm is no longer there. But that's what that gas mask on the wall in the delivery room is for, right? Breathe in, breathe out.
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